By the third week, exhaustion stopped being an inconvenience and became a constant companion.
Dani felt it in her bones before she ever admitted it out loud.
She woke up already tired. She fell asleep running numbers in her head. The bakery demanded more than time—it demanded attention, presence, resilience. And lately, it demanded choices she didn't want to make.
The ovens were running behind schedule that morning. A shipment of flour hadn't arrived. The espresso machine made a noise that sounded expensive.
Dani pinched the bridge of her nose and counted to five.
"Okay," she muttered. "One problem at a time."
The door opened behind her.
She didn't turn.
"If you're here to fix something I didn't ask you to fix," she said, "you can leave."
Parker's voice came calm and steady. "I'm here because you texted for help at two in the morning."
She froze.
"I didn't mean—"
"You did," he said gently. "And that's okay."
She exhaled slowly and finally faced him.
"I'm tired."
"I know."
That was becoming their most honest exchange.
They tackled the morning like triage.
Dani handled customers. Parker handled logistics—calling the supplier, rerouting the delivery, negotiating quietly without overshadowing her. He stayed just behind the curtain, exactly where she'd asked him to be.
She noticed.
So did the staff.
"Your fiancé's good in a crisis," one of her part-timers whispered.
Dani stiffened. "He's temporary."
The girl smiled awkwardly. "Sure."
That word again.
Temporary.
Dani repeated it to herself like a mantra.
Late morning brought a complication she couldn't ignore.
A city inspector arrived unannounced.
He wasn't rude. He wasn't aggressive.
He was thorough.
Dani stood beside him as he examined permits, storage, and wiring. Everything was technically in order—but barely. Older buildings always lived on the edge of compliance.
Parker hovered near the back, silent.
Watching, but not intervening.
When the inspector finally left, Dani sagged against the counter.
"That was close."
Parker nodded. "You handled it."
"Because I had to."
She glanced at him. "You didn't intervene."
"I didn't need to."
That mattered more than he knew.
The tension hit that night.
They stayed late again, exhaustion stripping away filters.
Dani snapped when Parker suggested adjusting hours.
"I didn't ask for advice," she said sharply.
"I was offering data."
"I don't want data. I want space."
He stepped back immediately. "Okay."
The silence stretched uncomfortably.
"I'm sorry," she said eventually. "I'm running on fumes."
"So am I."
She blinked. "You?"
"Yes."
That surprised her.
"You don't look it."
"That's practice."
They shared a quiet moment—two people equally worn down, equally stubborn.
"No touching," Dani reminded softly when he leaned too close to hear her.
"I know."
He didn't move closer.
That restraint felt heavier than any gesture.
The fault lines showed up in smaller ways after that.
Dani began catching herself before asking Parker questions she should answer herself. Parker started waiting an extra beat before stepping in.
They were both adjusting.
It wasn't smooth.
"You don't have to carry everything alone," he said one night.
"And you don't have to carry me," she shot back.
"I didn't say that."
"You implied it."
He studied her carefully. "You don't trust ease."
She crossed her arms. "I trust effort."
"Then let me earn my place here."
Her voice dropped. "You already have one. That's the problem."
The next day brought the first whisper Dani couldn't ignore.
A customer lingered after paying, eyes darting nervously.
"I heard something," the woman said hesitantly.
Dani's stomach tightened. "Heard what?"
"That the shop might… change."
Dani kept her smile steady. "Change how?"
"Ownership. Direction. Because of the engagement."
The word landed like a crack in glass.
"That's not true," Dani said firmly.
The woman nodded quickly. "I didn't think so. Just wanted to ask."
After she left, Dani stood frozen.
Parker watched her from across the room. "What happened?"
"Nothing," she said too quickly.
He didn't push.
But the fault line widened.
That evening, Dani confronted him anyway.
"This is spreading," she said. "People are wondering what happens to the shop."
"I haven't said anything."
"I know," she replied. "That's what scares me."
"Perception moves faster than truth," Parker said.
She scoffed. "You sound like a strategist."
"I am."
She leaned forward. "Then strategize this. How do I stay me in a deal that rewrites me every time someone looks at us?"
He didn't have a neat answer.
"That's the real cost," Dani continued. "Not money. Identity."
Parker met her gaze. "Then we draw the line publicly."
"How?"
"You say it out loud. The shop remains yours. Independent. Non-negotiable."
"That invites attention."
"Yes," he agreed. "But it also shuts down speculation."
She considered it, exhaustion dulling her resistance.
"Later."
"When?"
"When I'm strong enough to stand in it."
He nodded. "Then we wait."
They closed early that night.
The quiet felt heavy but necessary.
Dani locked the door and rested her forehead against the glass.
"I'm cracking," she admitted.
Parker stood a careful distance away. "You're holding."
"For how long?"
"As long as you need."
She laughed softly. "That's dangerous language."
"I mean it contractually," he said.
That made her smile despite herself.
Across town, Parker stared at his phone long after midnight.
Messages he didn't answer. Calls he ignored.
This wasn't about image yet.
It wasn't about reputation.
It was about pressure.
And pressure always found the weakest seam.
Back in the bakery, Dani lay awake listening to the hum of refrigeration from the apartment above, thinking about fault lines.
They didn't break things all at once.
They waited.
Shifted.
And then one day, without warning—
Everything changed.
The whisper stayed with her long after the customer left.
Ownership. Direction. Change.
None of those words belonged anywhere near her bakery.
She found Parker in the back, reviewing invoices she hadn't asked him to touch.
"You don't need to do that."
"I know," he said calmly, setting them down immediately. "I was waiting for you."
That stopped her.
"Waiting for what?"
"For you to decide what you want me to do next."
The control—handed back so deliberately—unsettled her.
"People are talking," she said quietly.
"They always do."
"Not like this. They're trying to figure out what happens to my shop when we get married."
"When," he repeated, neutral.
"Yes. When," she said sharply. "That's part of the deal."
"I remember."
"The question," Parker said carefully, "is how visible you want that deal to be."
"I don't want it visible at all."
"That's not realistic."
She bristled. "Neither is losing my business."
"I'm not suggesting that. I'm suggesting we control the narrative before it controls you."
She paced. "I didn't build this place to defend it from speculation."
"No," he agreed. "You built it to serve people."
"And now I'm supposed to reassure them I'm not selling out."
He watched her carefully. "Are you?"
The question was quiet. Honest. Dangerous.
Dani stopped pacing. "I'm doing what I have to do."
"That's not the same thing."
"It has to be."
Reality settled between them.
"I don't want to wake up one morning and realize this place doesn't feel like mine anymore," she said.
"It won't," Parker replied.
"You can't guarantee that."
"No," he admitted. "But I can guarantee this—if the shop changes, it won't be because I forced it."
She met his gaze. "And if it changes because of you?"
"Then I step back."
That surprised her.
"You'd do that?"
"Yes."
"Even if it costs you?"
Parker didn't hesitate. "The deal only works if you're choosing it."
Dani swallowed hard.
That wasn't leverage.
That was restraint.
And restraint, she was learning, could be just as destabilizing.
Later that night, Dani sat alone upstairs, paperwork spread across her kitchen table. The numbers made sense. The projections were solid.
Still, sleep wouldn't come.
She stared at the ceiling, listening to the building settle around her. This place had history. Wear. Character.
It had survived recessions, relocations, and personal loss.
She wouldn't let it disappear quietly.
Down the street, Parker stood outside the bakery longer than necessary, hands in his pockets, staring at the darkened windows.
He wasn't protecting an investment.
He was standing guard over a fault line, hoping it would hold.